


Experiments in Warmth

by Kelouisa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelouisa/pseuds/Kelouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a couple of related drabble pieces.  Sherlock crawls in John's bed while he's in the shower each day.  Sherlock and John's first kiss.  Fluffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John took at least seventeen minutes in the bathroom in the morning to get ready for work, between showering, shaving, brushing his teeth. That gave Sherlock two minutes to make sure his flat mate was semi-permanently enclosed in the room, one minute to remake the bed after, one minute to rearrange himself downstairs in an innocent pose, and thirteen minutes in the middle to curl up in the warm spot in John's bed. 

Sometimes he spread out, deducing John's sleeping position by the limits of the warmth on the on the bottom sheet. Other days he just curled up and let the man's warmth seep into him. 

If John ever noticed that his bed wasn't made with quite the same military precision as before he went to shower, or if he noticed a stray dark hair on his pillowcase, he never said. He might see, but he never observed. 

Sherlock tried waiting once until John left for work before invading his bed so he might luxuriate the whole day, but John took too long and the bed was cold by the time he got there. Instead, he spent an hour imagining John sharing the pillow, his face and warm breath so close. It wasn't difficult. John's scent, clean soap, wool, and a warm, woodsy smell when he lit their fireplace, lingered on the pillow and scent was a very strong memory aid. 

One morning, John left for the bathroom and Sherlock counted out the two minutes in his head. The shower turned on and Sherlock leapt up the stairs on cat feet. He'd no sooner pulled the covers back than someone cleared his throat. 

John cleared his throat. 

Directly behind him. 

"May I ask what you're doing in my room?" His tone was full of good humor and capped with a small amount of exasperation. 

"Laundry, John," Sherlock lied. "I need to see the effects of bleach on common cotton sheets." 

"No. Use your own sheets. I won't have you ruining mine." 

"But mine are 1600 threat count…" 

"No, Sherlock," John said more firmly. 

Sherlock made a show of tossing the edge of the blanket back over the side of the bed and made no fuss to ensure it was tidy. 

"Oh, very well, John. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson for one I can use for my experiment." He swanned out the door with no little relief that John believed him. 

Then, after a long case where John hadn't worked at the clinic much and Sherlock hadn't time to sleep or eat for days, much less steal into John's bed for his thirteen minutes of comfort, Sherlock paced in the sitting room, unable to quiet himself. John had admonished him to go to bed, though he had retreated to his own with the belief he'd wake to Sherlock sprawled, passed out on the sofa or possibly the floor. Sherlock could feel his transport begging for sleep – the feeling gnawed at him, clutched at his eyelids and shorted out his brain. He thought about fighting it longer, just to prove his will was in control, not his body. 

But there was another sensation in his body, one he couldn't quite identify. He'd felt it before. When? It took an improbably long moment for Sherlock to place it. Right. He felt it just before sneaking into John's bed. The need for warmth. Cold, he was cold! 

Sherlock leapt up the stairs two at a time, rapped twice before opening John's door. John raised his head blearily from his pillow. 

"What is it, Sherlock?" 

"I'm cold, John," Sherlock announced with no small amount of pride in his discovery. "Budge over." 

John was too tired to argue and if this was what it took to let Sherlock settle, to let him sleep, to let John sleep, then so be it. The second he shifted to a cool section of the mattress, Sherlock's gangly limbs were tucked into the warm spot. 

"Oh, yes, perfect," Sherlock sighed and laid his head on the pillow with its warm indent from John's tousled head. John fussed with the covers, tucking them about Sherlock's neck. Then he settled in, head bent close to Sherlock's as the detective had appropriated his only pillow. They had to share unless John wanted to crawl out of his warm comfortable bed for another one.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke in the gray morning hours before the sun had decided whether or not it was going to shine that day. They'd gone to bed the afternoon before, after the case had kept them awake far too long, and he supposed he'd gotten enough sleep by now. But he was so warm, so comfortable, he didn't really want to move. 

The fact that it was Sherlock's arm draped over his waist and Sherlock scooped up along his back and Sherlock's breath warm on the back of his neck didn't quite register at first. And when it did enter John's brain, it only merited an, "Oh, okay, then," perhaps due to residual sleepiness or the gradual wearing down of his definition of personal space. 

John just enjoyed the utter peace of it all for a few minutes. 

"John, turn over." Sherlock's voice was low and quiet, without the sibilance of a whisper. 

"Why? Do you want to be the little spoon for a while?" 

The only response from Sherlock was a small huff of air, and John lifted the covers a little and twisted around to face Sherlock. They weren't as closely pressed as they had been; their bodies couldn't quite conform to each other as well face-to-face, but Sherlock's arm resettled around his waist. 

John could just make out the planes of Sherlock's face in the dim morning light, the jaw where scruff somewhat more auburn than the hair on his head was coming in. His eyes glittered, still as sharp and soul-piercing even shrouded in the gray dawn shadows. 

Sherlock's warm breath puffed out over John's lips, making them tingle despite the slightly unpleasant smell. A lover's morning breath never really bothered John; it was intimate, personal, close. Even if Sherlock was not his lover, it was okay. 

And then those eyes were flickering over his face, and the hand that rested on John's waist slid up and cupped over the side of his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. And those lips, those sharply-drawn, soft, perfect lips touched his own lips with a tentative gentleness that surprised John. He'd always thought if Sherlock was driven to kiss him, it would be an act of adrenaline, or an act entirely, not tenderness. John returned the kiss, holding himself still and relaxed as if Sherlock was a wild creature that would be easily startled. Their lips brushed together softly, repeatedly, breath mingling warmly. John felt cocooned, as if there were only the two of them 

Sherlock kissed him not as one unfamiliar with the gesture, but as one uncertain as to how it would be received. Sherlock's fingers hovered over the pulse point in his neck. 

"Sherlock, is this some sort of experiment?" John broke away from Sherlock's soft lips. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but he couldn't let himself do this if… if it wasn't real, if it was all a trick, a game, if Sherlock didn't understand that feelings were involved, not just warmth and endorphins. 

"Of course it is." 

"Of course it is," John repeated with a sigh, pulling back. "I thought I told you not to experiment on me anymore." 

"I can't do this experiment with anyone else, John." 

"I wouldn't recommend that, no." 

"I mean, I can't, John. You are the important variable here. I'm trying to see whether the emotion of love has a significant effect on the arousal response." 

"And... and does it?" 

"Need more data."


	3. Out and About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief casefic wherein their new relationship is made public.

The elegant grounds were getting trampled by the constables and medical personnel and restless wedding guests. The staff hired for the wedding day were unsure what to do, so they improvised, circling the crowds with refreshments meant for the curtailed celebration. Beverages, excepting champagne, were offered to elegantly-dressed guests and policemen alike. The groundskeeper had long since given up trying to save his immaculate lawn and hovered in front of a terrace of rose bushes, scowling. 

Lestrade was scowling too. His presence had been requested at the estate to form a bridge between Sherlock and the local constabulary. He could argue that the estate was far from his jurisdiction, but he had no defense against being known as Sherlock's handler. Still, he didn't think it was his division to smooth the ruffled feathers of other detective inspectors when the famous consulting detective was called in. That was John's job. John was kind and patient and soothing. Lestrade was jonesing for a cigarette. 

The bride's father, one Mr. Ewold Gateman and owner of a fine estate just north of London, had insisted on Sherlock Holmes, even if his presence merited more than the usual media attention. Mr. Gateman had enough wealth and influence to insist upon a hasty resolution. Upon receiving many calls nearly at once, John had, in a moment of brilliance, coerced a ridiculous fee from Gateman in return for what Sherlock had dismissed as, "A three. Barely," when he had gotten the initial details from Lestrade. In the end, though, Sherlock hadn't been too terribly difficult to convince. John merely had to state that with the money they'd receive, he wouldn't have to take as many shifts at the surgery for a while. 

Sherlock had huffed and agreed like he was doing John the world's biggest favor. John smiled indulgently in return and hastened the detective out the door. 

When they arrived in the middle of the sumptuous grounds flooded with members of the local constabulary, several adjacent ones, and over three hundred potential witnesses and suspects, Sherlock perked up. The constables had separated the large group as much as possible into guests, wedding party, house staff and temporary staff. They were painstakingly interviewing each, but that would take hours. 

The dead man was the groom. He'd never descended in the morning to take his place at the head of the aisle to await his bride. He'd been found by an angry almost-father-in-law in the office/library, which had been locked the night before against wandering guests. Sherlock examined the doors and windows with interest before setting eyes on the body. 

The bride was hysterical in the nearby drawing room that opened to the grounds where the ceremony had been set up. She was surrounded by a flotilla of stunning bridesmaids all in clouds of pink taffeta. They fluttered about, bringing her water and tissues; one enterprising young lady had even snagged a bottle of scotch from the bar. She waggled the bottle at John and Lestrade in invitation as she sauntered past them in the hall. Lestrade tapped his warrant card with a wry grin and John just stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away with a smile and shrug. 

"John, all those bridesmaids," Lestrade muttered with some longing. "I would have thought you to be off flirting while the Great One works. The bird with the scotch looked keen." 

"No drinking on the job, Lestrade," John answered, even though they had been relegated to the wide hall with everyone else by Sherlock's blunt declaration that he needed to think and that everyone was distracting him. 

"Don't have to drink it." 

"Go on yourself, then. I'd rather wait 'til Sherlock figures it out. With my luck, I'd hit on the murderer." 

"He was strangled, John. It's a tough thing to do. You know as well as I that it was probably a man. I think you're safe." 

"Still." 

Lestrade chuckled. 

John and Lestrade peered in at Sherlock through the slightly open door, careful not to draw attention to themselves and distract the detective. Sherlock was still crouched by the body, apparently fascinated by the groom's face. The man had marks – not cuts from shaving, nor in a manner consistent with razor burn. Sherlock leapt up and began to pace, fingers to his lips. Suddenly Sherlock lit up. He bounded from the library, past John and Lestrade in the hall, and into the drawing room. 

"A mirror! Preferably one with magnifying properties." The bride and bridesmaids, select family members, and several constables blinked in surprise. 

A model-esque bridesmaid pulled a compact from a ruffled drawstring purse dangling from her wrist. 

"Excellent!" The detective missed how she flirtatiously held it out, withdrew it slightly to draw him closer before allowing him to snap it from her fingers. 

"John, I need you!" 

"Duty calls." Lestrade chuckled. 

"What do you need me to do, Sherlock?" John ducked into the drawing room. Sherlock whirled about. Clearly he was onto a scent of sorts. It was only a matter of minutes before some great reveal and that garnered the attention of everyone in the room, as well as those near the French doors opened to the garden beyond. 

"Kiss me!" And Sherlock's lips covered John's so impulsively, John had little time to react. 

After a bit of a shocked delay, camera shutters snapped as even the forensic team enterprisingly filled their memory cards with the sight. The shots from certain cell phones were online before the kiss had even ended. The sight would be commented on, dissected, glorified, hated, and dismissed as clever Photoshop a million times over by the end of the night. 

It was a stunning kiss, from any angle. John grabbed onto Sherlock's jacket in response to the detective's exuberance, sure, but it was clear as the kiss progressed, the blogger was giving as good as he got. This was no unexpected first kiss that bowled over an unsuspecting friend, nor a simple experiment for the sake of a case. 

Lestrade groaned at a crowing text from Donovan about winning the office pool just as Sherlock pulled back. 

John cleared his throat, flushing bright red as he realized they'd been snogging so enthusiastically in the midst of curious, tech-savvy onlookers. "Was that display really necessary, Sherlock?" 

But John didn't look perturbed. He had a slightly goofy grin on his face as if Sherlock kissed him stupid every day and six times on Sunday. Sherlock ignored him, examining the skin of his chin and around his lips in the mirror. 

"Whisker burn!" he finally announced. "Find and arrest the best man, Lestrade!" 

"The best man?" Lestrade sputtered. "Why..?" 

Sherlock spouted out his deductions without a moment's hesitation for his normal scathing derision. 

"The groom had spent the night before the wedding, as is usually done, with his best man and various other mates. After a late night, the best man was entrusted with seeing the groom back to his rooms at the estate. Clearly, he confessed his romantic feelings – and those feelings were returned as evidenced by the significant amount of whisker burn on the groom's face. But when he said this morning that he was going through with the wedding anyway – he is already wearing his tuxedo – the best man killed him. Simple crime of passion." 

"Well done, Sherlock," John said, bussing the taller man on the lips and quite cutting off the contemptuous, "Dull," that would have otherwise emerged. 

The bride burst out into a fresh hail of tears and sobs. 

"Oh, do not carry on so," Sherlock said, moving to where John could not stop him. "He is not worth your grief. He was only marrying you for your money." 

"And, I think it's time for us to be going." John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's jacket and pulled him towards the door. "Good day, Lestrade."

"Well, that explains the bridesmaids," Lestrade muttered to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another bit in mind as well, but I wanted something in between this and the next idea. This bit of cuddle seemed nice :) Not sure when that next idea will be written or posted.

The day started off with a sudden epiphany from Sherlock which evolved into an invigorating chase.  They split up near the end, with John sneaking around the back while Sherlock thrust himself in the suspect's path.  John tackled the thug from behind and used his own length of copper pipe against him in a chokehold.  Sherlock texted Lestrade one-handed while congratulating John on his outstanding use of brute force.  Once his phone slipped back into his pocket, he crossed his arms over his chest in a way he hoped looked natural.

The attempt was unsuccessful. 

John didn't say anything until their suspect had been properly cuffed and installed in the back of a panda car.  Perhaps he had noticed Sherlock's arms were less crossed and more cradled, or that Sherlock was not accompanying his deductions with his usual vigorous gestures.

"Did you take a blow to the arm from that pipe, Sherlock?" John interrupted.  Sherlock glared in John's direction and Lestrade blinked and stepped back.

"I'm fine.  It's just a deep bruise."

"It's a deep bruise when the x-ray says it's a deep bruise.  A&E, now."  John used his army captain voice as much now as he did in the army, it seemed.  Sherlock knew it was useless to argue.

Several hours and five angry medical professionals later (not counting John), the pair were ensconced back home at Baker Street, where Sherlock tipped his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor.  John picked it up and hung it before taking off his own and making tea without a word.  Sherlock flopped into his chair with a pained grimace.

"Bored, John.  Cluedo?"

"Neither of us is fit enough for another game of Cluedo," John answered drily from the kitchen.  "Besides you've just solved a case.  I haven't even thought of a blog title for it, so you can't be bored already."

"Hospital was tedious."

"I know, but you've fractured your ulna.  You were lucky not to need surgery to reset the bone or clean out fragments."

Sherlock hmphed at that and sulked while John gently maneuvered a pillow under Sherlock's temporary cast.

"Comfy?"

"No.  Bring me my violin.  And tea.  And those chocolate Hob-Nobs I know you've hidden away behind the kitchen towels."

John fetched everything without complaint before settling in his own chair across from Sherlock's.

"No safety lecture?"

"Do you want to hear it?"

"No."  Sherlock did not like to be told that he'd been careless or reckless or ought to have told John the plan or waited, but John's silence on the matter was disconcerting.  Then again, he never could fathom the man.  He'd surprised him in so many ways already.

"Well, then."

Sherlock drank his tea but only managed one and a half biscuits before he began to randomly pluck at the strings of his violin, which he had hugged to his chest with his good arm as if it was a teddy bear.  In a sudden motion, he jumped up, propped his violin in his seat, and sat on the sofa.  A moment later, he'd stretched out on his back, rolling to his side shortly after.  An irritated groan followed this last movement.

"My arm hurts, John."

"I know, Sherlock.  I'm sorry, but I can't give you anything stronger than ibuprofen.  I'm sure in a couple of days you'll be banging around the kitchen knocking over beakers because you've forgotten to account for your cast."

Sherlock grunted in offense.

"You could try and sleep a little.  It will be better for you if you rest."

"I can't rest, John!  I can't get comfortable at all."

"Okay.  Okay.  How about this:  pajamas, Chinese delivery, and a DVD?"

"I hate telly, John," Sherlock grumped.

"We've a series of Inspector Lewis we haven't watched yet.  You could try to beat your record."

Sherlock was torn.  He did like to watch mysteries and announce the killer as early as possible.  When John was feeling indulgent, he'd allow Sherlock to skip ahead the moment he'd made his pronouncement and see if he was right.  His current record was reducing over four hours to a mere twenty-three minutes.

"Very well."

"Do you need help changing your clothes?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped, heading to his room.  A few moments later, he wished he hadn't been so hasty.  He had to find a scissors so he could remove his cast from the remains of his tight-fitting shirt; they'd only sliced open the sleeve at the hospital, leaving him a decent amount of shirt to cover himself.  The trousers were easier to remove one-handed, but he did so enjoy John's hands on his fly even when John was being polite and professional.  He returned a few minutes later, just as John hung up the phone, dressing gown only half-on because just pulling on the tee-shirt over his cast had been horrible.  John didn't say anything about the dangling sleeve or the untied drawstring of his pajama trousers.

John went to change out of his jeans.  When he returned, he was wearing pajama bottoms and a vest and a soft jumper Sherlock had bought him last Christmas instead of his terry robe.  He also had brought down a duvet and pillows.  Sherlock had been trying to make himself comfortable on the sofa with various sprawled positions and their floppy Union Jack pillow, but was having no luck.

"You can lean against me.  That should help."

Sherlock gave a doubtful grunt in reply.

John sat on the sofa, a little slumped with his sock feet up on the coffee table.  Sherlock examined him and the pillows and sat leaning back against John's shoulder.  "No."  He stood.  Sherlock tried again, lying down on the sofa with his head on John's lap and his arm propped on a pillow. 

"Insufferable."  Every position seemed to make his arm throb more intolerably.

After ten minutes of frustration and worsening discomfort, Sherlock found his position.  He sprawled his top half across a combination of John's chest, lap, and a pillow, his knees against the back of the sofa.  The Union Jack pillow rested on John's shoulder with Sherlock's temporary cast propped atop it.  With his arm well above his heart, the throbbing eased somewhat. 

"You won't be able to see the television."

"Don't care," Sherlock mumbled where his face was pressed into the soft weave of John's sweater.  "Will solve crime by ear."  He had no real intention now of watching television.  His attention was much better occupied by examining the fibers of John's soft jumper at close range, smelling their smell and the faded remains of John's aftershave and feeling the warmth of John's chest against his cheek.

"Okay."  John started the first DVD with the remote, tugging the duvet over as much of them as he could without displacing Sherlock.  John shifted just a little bit more to make himself comfortable, curling one arm around Sherlock's ribs.

It was most pleasant.  Sherlock listened to John's steady heartbeat, shutting out the voices from the television.  John's warmth enveloped him, flowed through him.  John's free hand stroked through Sherlock's curls, each fingertip creating a pleasant tingle in Sherlock's scalp.   For a brief second Sherlock even considered that he might not ever move from this spot, before realism and reason reared their ugly heads.

Mrs. Hudson found them like that an hour later when she came up the steps to scold them for ignoring the delivery boy ringing the bell.  The reminder that she was not their housekeeper lost most of its snap when she took in Sherlock's cast and his opulent sprawl over John's person.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson.  Sherlock was sleeping and I didn't want to disturb him."

"Oh, as long as you don't make this a habit, it's fine this time.  I'll just put this in the fridge for later, then, shall I?"

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson.  Couldn’t ask for a better landlady than you."

"Oh, my boys."  She couldn’t help but smile indulgently and leave them to their cuddle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section was inspired by a photo much like the one I describe. When I saw it, I thought it totally ought to be part of John Watson's history in my head-canon. Enjoy :)

"My laptop again?  You know, yours is brand new, Sherlock."  John walked in from the kitchen to a familiar sight.  They were having a cozy night in, though in Sherlock terms, cozy often equated with dull.  He'd found something to entertain himself with, apparently, and John wondered if he could coax the man into a cuddle on the sofa or if Sherlock had started something that would last well into the night.

"It was closer," Sherlock replied, tapping the track pad.  "Plus I haven't set up the new one yet."  Sherlock had, at some long-ago point, created a network between his and John's laptops; thus, none of his data had been lost when the old one met its demise in some inexplicable and dubious circumstances a few days prior – not that John had any idea how to access Sherlock's data if he wanted to.  Not that he ever particularly wanted to view what was certainly a series of experimental notes and spreadsheets, as well as a draft of his tobacco ash monograph.

"You said you were bored.  You could be doing that, then."

"This is more important."

"Right.  Should I just confiscate the new one for my blog, then?  Save you the trouble?"

"If you wish," Sherlock replied distractedly.  He was staring at the screen with a perplexed expression, scrolling down with one finger steady on the down arrow.  John thought the man looked so much like himself when technology confounded him that he couldn't help but chuckle.

"So what are you doing?" John asked, expecting some incomprehensible research-related answer, whether related to a case or not.  He did not expect what he saw when he glanced over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Facebook, Sherlock?  I wouldn't have thought that to be your thing.  I mean, they call it _social_ media for a reason.  What's next?  Candy Crush?"

"Of course not, John.  But it is fascinating what personal details people will make public on the internet."

"Could be a great tool for catching criminals.  I read an article about several cases being solved because the suspects posted pictures of themselves in the burglarized home, or bragging about the crime in their status updates.  Some even 'checked in' at a place near the crime scene when their alibis were supposedly across the city."

"The Yard can keep their dull crimes and idiotic criminals.  It's no fun at all if they give themselves away."

John dropped a kiss on Sherlock's damp hair, nudging a bit closer to see what had Sherlock so intrigued.

"Hey, wait, is that _my_ Facebook page?"  John knew better than to get angry about Sherlock's constant lack of boundaries.  It was futile.  They'd been friends, and now _together_ , long enough for John to accept the bad habit and pick his battles.  As long as Sherlock wasn't using it to perform some sort of embarrassing social experiment amongst John's friends, he could hold his temper.

"I don't have a page and your updates and photos are limited to friends.  It isn't as if your passwords are difficult to decipher.  I'll give you credit for trying to make this one a challenge: a random set of letters, numbers and symbols – well done.  However, your weakness was that you were required to write it down to remember it."  Sherlock flicked a piece of paper over his shoulder at John, where it hit his dressing gown with a faint, white puff.  "Dusting of flour on the kitchen tile, but you hadn't been baking.  Barely a two."  Sherlock said this with distain, but John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was irritated with the simple hiding place or the fact that John had not actually been baking.

Instead of matching annoyance, John felt that frisson of excitement and awe he experienced when Sherlock was being clever.  John would admit that he only changed his passwords so Sherlock could figure them out.  It was a silly game, perhaps, but not one either was willing to give up.

"You know what my relationship status is, so you wanted to see my pictures?  You could have just asked."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Why ask, when one can _investigate_?"  He turned his attention back to the screen.  "I had no idea soldiers were allowed to be such shutterbugs."

Ah, Bill Murray finally uploaded his photos, then.  The nurse, who had dragged John to safety after he'd been shot, had a camera glued to his hand whenever he wasn't assisting in surgery.  "Not as many secrets in a hospital tent that need protecting.  Plus, I'm sure whatever Murray has posted has been cleared."

John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to see the screen, consciously brushing his jaw against Sherlock's thick curls as Sherlock looked through the album of tagged photos.  Most were group photos of smiling young men, arms draped casually over shoulders.  One was a grinning, John in just a pair of fatigue pants with a rugby ball in his dusty hands.  Sherlock had never seen his chest without the scar and his eyes clearly lingered on it now.  When he finally clicked for the next picture, it boasted John in full desert khaki BDU, RAMC patch on his arm, smile barely visible under his helmet. 

John pointed out a few of his friends, mentioned, if he knew, where they were now, until he realized Sherlock might not even be listening.  He trailed off.

"Don't stop, John.  You rarely talk about your time in Afghanistan."

"You want to hear it?"

"Of course."  Sherlock cleared his throat before continuing briskly.  "Purely selfish information-gathering, if you must know.  The soldier-John room in my mind palace is rather too sparse."

"I figured you'd just delete them as useless information."

"I never delete anything to do with you, John."  Sherlock's statement was coldly factual, but his words were anything but.

John grinned, knowing Sherlock saw his face reflected in the computer screen.  "Except the names of my ex-girlfriends, or that I don't take sugar in my coffee."  After John managed to write about Baskerville in a blog post Mycroft disallowed him to upload, he felt better about the whole affair and often joked about it.

"I never forgot either of those.  The misappropriation of facts in those cases was deliberate."

"I should have realized you were jealous, Sherlock."  John laid a soft kiss just below Sherlock's earlobe.  Then a second, slightly lower.

"John…" Sherlock cajoled.

"All right, all right."  John grinned, settling in against Sherlock's shoulders.   From here he could smell Sherlock's fresh-from-the shower smell, his aftershave, and feel that slightly humid heat at his nape.  The silk dressing gown was whisper-soft as John trailed his fingers beneath the collar.  He managed to resist the urge to pull Sherlock from the computer to the sofa for steamy bit of snogging.  Instead, he continued his narration, trying to keep it light even when he saw good men who were gone now.

"John?  Who is she?"

Sherlock had found a photo of John, asleep, stretched out in a chair in his fatigues – quite properly named, for he'd been exhausted and slept soundly regardless of the flash and shutter click.  John was asleep in that chair, yes, but he wasn't alone.  A small child draped bonelessly over his chest, half-wrapped in a blanket, an IV-tethered hand emerging from the covering.  John's hand rested on her back, keeping her safely in place while they slept.

"Never found out.  No family ever came to collect her and she never spoke, not even to the interpreters."

"She's practically an infant."

John nodded.  "Three or four, we thought.  I patched up as many, if not more, civilians as soldiers out there.  You know that battle lines are not so strictly drawn."  John's hand tightened on Sherlock's shoulder, as if needing the man to ground him in the present.  "She hated the IV, just cried and cried.  Well, whimpered, really, because she was too weak to do much more than that.  Didn't help that they had to put on Velcro cuffs because she kept trying to pull out the needle.  It was heartbreaking.  Nothing could calm her, get her to sleep.  I finally shooed everyone from the room, turned down the lights, and sang to her.  Eventually, we both passed out for the night.  Not sure when or how Murray took that picture."

"I'm glad he did, John."

John didn't know what to say, so he just kissed Sherlock's cheek.  The screen lingered on that photo for another full minute, but John wasn't looking at it.  Sherlock was warm, and solid, and in his arms.  He was abrupt and brash and, for all his brain-power, often spoke and leapt before thinking.  He was mad and brilliant and cared far more deeply about things, about John, than anyone had ever suspected he was capable.  He had saved John much as Bill Murray had.  John realized he'd been gifted with this second chance, this life with Sherlock.

"What are you thinking, Sherlock?" John inquired, after realizing Sherlock had been quiet and tense for far too long, though there were no tell-tale signs of him entering his mind palace.

"Do you want children?"  Sherlock tried to ask it coolly, as if he were asking whether John wanted go out to Angelo's, but John heard the simple question, and all the not-so-simple questions it disguised.  It wasn't just _do you want children?_ , but _do you want children with me?_ and _do you want children badly enough to leave if I don't?_

John replied carefully, squeezing his arms around Sherlock's shoulders as he did.  "I would like a family, yes, but if my family ends up being you, me, and a grumpy old dog I take for walks while you tend to your bees, I will be more than happy with that.  I'm happy."

Sherlock slid his hand over John's where it had trailed down over his chest.  John responded with a bit of a nuzzle.  

"If you decide you want more, love, we can discuss it.  It's not like it's going to happen by accident with us.  If it's what you want – and I'd want you to be a hundred percent on board because it's a lifetime commitment – but if it is what you want, we can have Mycroft help us with a surrogate or an adoption.  But we don't have to decide now."

Sherlock clicked away from the picture and logged out of the site.  When he spoke, his voice was brisk and clear of any sort of emotionally-charged tone, which told John there were emotions there to be tamped down and controlled.

"If we had a surrogate, I'd like you to be the sperm donor.  I wouldn't want to burden a child with my genetic inadequacies.  I do believe there is a strong element of nurture over nature, and you'd clearly be a much more kind, loving parent than I ever had, but there are intrinsic elements of my and Mycroft's natures which I would not care to see propagated."

"There's _nothing_ _wrong_ with you, Sherlock.  I'd love a brilliant child with dark, curly hair."  John ruffled that of which he spoke.  " _We'd_ love him and you'd be a fantastic father.  You'd get to teach everything you know to a little sponge who would think the world of you.  It would be terribly exciting for you."

John kissed Sherlock somewhere in the realm of the hinge of his jaw.  "And he'd grow to be tall and gorgeous on top of that fine Holmes brain," John whispered against Sherlock's skin.  "No, maybe you're right.  Perhaps it wouldn't be fair to unleash a child that brilliant and beautiful and wonderful on an unsuspecting populace."

"You're being facetious, John."  But Sherlock did sound pleased, flattered, and that made John ache with love.

"Perhaps we ought to have one of each, then, so that our Sherlock Junior would always have John Junior fast by his side."

Sherlock pulled John's arms closer around his neck. 

"I would never saddle an innocent child with a Holmes family name.  I'm not saying yes, of course.  I am uncharacteristically enamored with the idea due to observing a photograph of you caring for a child in such a fatherly fashion.  I need to clear my mind of the ephemeral emotional impact of this picture and judge whether I would actually wish for a child."

"Seeing me holding a child makes you want children?"

"And mate with you, yes.  It's an embarrassingly common reaction, though typically attributed to women.  It's a curious physical sensation, something other than arousal.  Fluttering.  I'm not certain how to describe it."

"Like snuggling together under the duvet, maybe?"

"Hmm, perhaps.  Certainly there must be a name for this feeling.  Perhaps in German.  They developed the magnificent word Schadenfreude, after all."

"As often as I suspect you feel Schadenfreude, Sherlock, I believe the phrase you're looking for is "warm fuzzies."

"That phrase is ridiculous, John."  Sherlock turned, rather scandalized.  "Though I must admit, it is adequately descriptive."

"My God, Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Warm Fuzzies."  John couldn't help but giggle.  "How shall he overcome the invading army of fluffy thoughts?  Is it the dastardly plot of some evil kitten mastermind?"

"You shall not post anything of the sort on that blog of yours, John Watson," Sherlock admonished, standing up.  To counter John's teasing, he wrapped his arms around the shorter man's waist and pulled him close.

"But I'm sure I could work in a brilliant reference to Tribbles."

"Making up ridiculous words again, are we?" Sherlock uttered in his deep, sexy voice as he lowered his mouth to John's.  John kissed back, certain that he was going to get his snog on the sofa after all.

Sherlock jerked back after a minute, leaving John hazy-eyed and full of warm, fuzzy feelings himself.

"Wait a minute.  Did you say you wanted a _dog_?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's text alert sounded, but he pretended he hadn't heard it.  John heard it, though, judging by the way the paper rustled as he folded it and set it aside.

"Aren't you going to check that?  It could be a case."

It most certainly could.  And usually, Sherlock would be jumping for a case.  However, between his latest experiments and one particularly perplexing dilemma bogging down the gears of his brain, Sherlock found he was not interested.

"Busy."

"You are not busy.  You're waiting for saliva to disintegrate fingernails, which is never going to happen.  You check on it once an hour at most before curling up on my lap and napping."

"I do not nap, John.  And I'm not waiting for disintegration but a certain level of malacia.  During the intervals, I am thinking."

"About what?"

The text alert sounded again.  John tipped his head towards the phone.

"It could be important."

"It could be _Mycroft_."  A shudder accompanied his statement.

"Mycroft doesn't like to text."

"His minion does."

"Anthea has a name."

"Yes, she does, and it is most certainly not Anthea."

John sighed.  Dealing with a petulant Sherlock was not his favorite thing, but John had his methods.

"Would you like me to check for you?" he asked, scrubbing his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.  "If it is anything less than a seven from Lestrade, I'll just delete it."

"Nine."

"What constitutes a nine?"

"Hmm, eight gallons of blood mixed from as many victims, no bodies, at a restaurant which is known for its aspic."

"Simple, they're serving the flesh from the bodies."

"A vegan restaurant."

John opened his mouth, then closed it.  He did not want to know.  While John was temporarily revolted at the thought of parsnip gelatin, his phone sounded as well.

"Let me up, then, to check."

"I thought you liked lazy Sunday mornings," Sherlock groused.

"I do, but not when they're preceded by lazy Saturdays and Fridays and Thursdays…"

"Oh, then check if you must."  Sherlock lifted his head from John's thigh and allowed the man to stand.

It was nowhere near a nine, but Sherlock accepted Lestrade's invitation anyway.  John put on his shoes and jacket while Sherlock, who'd still been faffing about in his pajamas, dressed from the skin out.  He made no attempt, however, to put his hair in any semblance of order.

"You need a haircut."  John made an attempt to ruffle it where it was flat on one side, but Sherlock ducked away.

"Why is Lestrade at a jewelry store heist anyway?  It's not his division."

"It is when the store's assistant manager takes a shotgun blast to the face.  Now come on or we may as well not go.  Anderson will have trampled over everything of use."  John had found that threats of Anderson worked wonderfully well in motivating Sherlock down the steps.

Sure enough, Sherlock's voice demanded that _John_ hurry as he lingered at the top of the stairs to lock their door.

***

The scene was much tidier than in the movies.  No glass displays were smashed open or ransacked.  If it weren't for the forensics crew moving diligently through the scene, one would never guess anything untoward had happened here at all.  The body was in a back room with a walk-in vault.  The man was unrecognizable, but had been identified by the wallet still in his jacket pocket.  The thieves were clearly not interested in cash; the store manager had opened the smaller safe in one of the offices and verified that the register drawers were intact and that the bag with the bank deposit inside was as he'd left it the afternoon before.

Sherlock prowled around, absorbing the details as well as snippets of the conversations around him.  John kept back and let Sherlock do his thing until he was asked to do otherwise.

"You!" Sherlock shouted out of nowhere.  "How was this discovered on a Sunday?  The hours painted on the display window indicate the shop is closed on Sundays.  No one would have been due to come in, would they?"

"No, not today," answered the startled store manager.  "I assumed Abbot had been able to activate the silent alarm, and the alarm company called the police."

"Did it?  You're the store manager.  Did you punch in your code when you arrived, or call the alarm company to give them your override code?"

"No, the system was off when I came through the door.  The police were already here."

"Lestrade!  Did the alarm company alert the police to the break-in or was it someone who heard the gunshot?"

"The call was made by a man walking his dog around six this morning."  Lestrade flipped back through his notebook.  "He noticed the van pull up, a couple of men in balaclavas walk up to the door.  He walked around the next corner and made the call and was on the line when the gun was fired.  We're working on getting the CCTV footage from outside."

Sherlock waved away the comment about the video footage.  He'd have this solved before they'd have a chance to review it.  He paced back and forth.

"We're also pulling footage from around the assistant manager's flat," Lestrade continued.  "We're working with the theory that he was kidnapped and made to participate in the robbery.  When he became a liability to the robbers and they shot him and left the shop.  They've clearly been casing the shop for some time, learning when new diamonds came in, which employees lived alone, were vulnerable."

"That would truly be a most astute assessment of the situation, Lestrade, if it weren't so thoroughly wrong."

"What?"  Lestrade really shouldn't be surprised when Sherlock announced he was wrong.  John stepped up with an apologetic grin, knowing it was his time to be the recipient of whatever brilliant conclusion Sherlock would spout out in the next few minutes.  He knew what his job here was.

"You're working on the assumption, Lestrade, that this was the work of some international diamond theft ring, partly because you watch too many ridiculous heist movies involving people dangling from ceilings and driving too fast through miraculously unclogged city streets and partly because you know nothing at all about the diamond business."

Lestrade made an exasperated gesture that indicated Sherlock might as well continue.

"The diamond industry is an extremely closed circle.  To sell several million pounds-worth of diamonds, one would have to have a very aged and trustworthy reputation, even among the black market denizens.  Let's not forget that diamonds of any real worth have serial numbers microscopically etched on them as well, making them even more difficult to move."

"Everything you're saying only strengthens the whole international diamond theft ring theory, Holmes.  They would have buyers and sellers and people to recut the diamonds and no one would ever know the difference."

"And yet they kidnapped the assistant manager from his home early on Sunday morning, brought him down here to disable the alarm and open the safe where the diamonds are kept and then shot him in the face with a shotgun!"

"Jesus, Sherlock, I have no idea what to even say about that.  I'm clearly missing something.  We're all missing something!"

"The balaclavas," John chimed in.

"What about them?" Lestrade barked.

Sherlock just looked elated and clapped his hands on John's shoulders with a brilliant smile.

"The two men in balaclavas, Lestrade, they're your proof that he's the murderer!"

"He who?"

"The assistant manager.  What was his name?  Abbott?"

"So the murder victim is also the murderer?  Sherlock, this is not Cluedo!"

A few of the nearby officers stifled laughs; they had read the story on John's blog, too.

"No, and this," Sherlock gestured to the faceless body on the floor, "is not the assistant manager.  I imagine if you hurry, you can catch him at Heathrow.  He'll be in a rush to leave the country with his money since even a basic exam by a good ME will prove that the gentleman on the floor is anyone but Abbott."

"How do you get that from _balaclavas_?"

"Simple, Lestrade.  You said that the dog-walker saw a couple of men in balaclavas enter the store, not a couple of men and Abbott.  If they had left him in the van after getting the alarm code, presumably tied up, then what would he be doing in here?  The time span from entrance to gunshot was a walk around the corner and a phone call to emergency services, too short to enter the store, empty the vault, return outside, force Abbott inside, shoot him and make a getaway.  Clearly, Abbott was already inside, as one of the robbers. 

"Furthermore, the body does not have any marks of a balaclava being removed after the gunshot, so it was removed beforehand.  Why, when there are obviously security cameras near the ceiling?  Only someone who had disabled the cameras would have taken off his mask.  There are no signs of cut wires or spray paint, so they were disabled at the source.  This is easiest to do with the assistance of someone familiar with the system, say, an assistant manager.  I suspect you'll find that the security cameras haven't been recording for at least a day. 

"You would have stumbled upon that eventually, even if you didn't notice his clothes."

"What about his clothes?" Lestrade asked, peering at the body before him. 

"For one, the suit is much too cheaply made for someone working in the diamond district.  It's older, not tailored.  The coat does not come from the same dye lot as the trousers, which fit better.  The shoes do not match the suit at all.  He was made to look well-dressed, to a non-discerning eye, but through second-hand garments.  Perhaps our assistant manager sacrificed some of his oldest clothing for the cause.  He certainly wouldn’t be needing it with millions of pounds in his bank account."

"Not to mention," John interjected when Sherlock paused for breath, "if you were kidnapped before six in the morning on a Sunday, what would you be wearing?  Pajamas?  Anything you hastily threw on?  Or would you be wearing a suit jacket and have tied your tie?"

Everyone but Sherlock looked at the body and its neat, if blood-drenched, half-Windsor knot.  Sherlock looked at John with a beaming smile.

Lestrade strode from the office with his phone already to his ear, starting the chain of events that would lead to the apprehension of Mr. Abbott at Heathrow.

"John, your observational skills are improving!  At least someone is benefitting from exposure to my methods, if not Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard."  Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders, and if it looked less like he clapped John on the shoulders in congratulations and more like he was pulling the shorter man closer in an effulgent embrace, well, Lestrade and his team were too busy doing their jobs to notice.  After Sherlock's display at the Gateman wedding, their relationship certainly wasn't a secret, but they did their best to keep it private.

John would later explain Sherlock's deductions more clearly on his blog, including the derision Sherlock showed at how utterly fallible Abbott's plan was.  It was a complete façade, incapable to holding up under any sort of scrutiny.  He'd never had the diamonds in the safe in the first place.  He had been entrusted with handling the transaction, only to miss the meeting with the seller and use his authorization to wire the money into his own account.  He'd staged the whole kidnapping, robbery, and murder to fake his own death and escape from the country with his millions before the store manager would have questioned the lack of an armored delivery truck on Monday morning.

Even Scotland Yard would have eventually unraveled it, so the key had been getting out of the country before they did.  He did not count on Sherlock Holmes.  And in the end, he'd only been an ordinary man, not some master criminal, and had bought the plane ticket with his own passport and had been brought to justice by a flag by his name in a computer.

The dead man was found to be a petty criminal of similar coloring and build as Abbott, whom he confessed to recruiting with promises of a big score.  They'd bonded over a love for Tarantino films and he hadn't thought twice about dressing up in a suit for the robbery.  The shotgun had been his, Abbott revealed, brought along "just in case," but as soon as he set it down, Abbott picked it up. 

The quick unraveling of the tangled mess of case was not why John wrote about it fondly on his blog.  He was a private man, and some details were not meant for public consumption.

What he did not write about was this:

John lingered halfway between Lestrade, who was making several intense, harried phone calls, and Sherlock, who was standing quietly near one of the display cases.  Or at least John hoped that was what he was doing.  Sherlock was known to have sticky fingers when irritated, though he had been well-pleased with the twists in the case.

"Lunch, Sherlock?" John said, coming up from behind when Lestrade had cleared them to leave before Sherlock got antsy.

"Not hungry."  He'd had toast and tea that morning with John, true, but John was hungry and there was nothing in.  At least Sherlock might nibble off his plate.

"It's tradition.  A case has been solved."

"Oh, very well, then.  Chinese?" 

John nodded, knowing Sherlock wouldn't resist fried dumplings.  He put his hand on Sherlock's back, about to guide the man towards a proper meal, when Sherlock stiffened under his touch.

"John," he said, taking a deep breath.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

And Sherlock looked at John with words stuck in his throat.  John, growing more adept at reading Sherlock with every passing day, took in the slight flush, the fidgety nature on Sherlock's fingers on the glass over matching sets of rings, the awkwardness and hesitation and tendency to avoid anything having to do with dreaded feelings.  John reached forward and covered Sherlock's twitching hand with his own steady one.

And there, in the middle of a team of Yarders taking pictures and shouting back and forth at each other, John looked up at his consulting detective and said, " _Yes_ , Sherlock."

They would return later to pick out their rings.


	7. Hobbit John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had this snippet laying about. It amuses me :)

"You're the one who made me watch those ridiculous movies."  Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, his bare feet propped up on one of the armrests.

"Sherlock, I am not descended from Hobbits."

"You clearly are," he responded as if John was being terribly silly for arguing.

"I am not! They're not real!"

"The movies clearly state that the age of man was coming, which puts it into our distant history. The elves leave and there are few wizards; we can presume the orcs would be hunted down and killed in a genocidal fury, which leaves Middle Earth populated by Hobbits and men. The evidence that you, John Watson, are descended primarily from Hobbits is obvious. Why are you denying it?"

"Hobbits don't exist, Sherlock!"

"Not anymore, no. My Hobbit John."

"You're being ridiculous."

"You are the one who is ridiculous, John, for denying the truth so vehemently. Let's examine the evidence, shall we?"

"Do what you want."  John hid his nose in the nearest book, though it probably didn't help that he'd randomly grabbed Return of the King.

"First, your height."

"Oi, I'm not _that_ short. You're just so blasted tall."

"Hush, John, I'm stating the evidence. Factor two: you possess an annoying love of eating. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, dinner, supper, snacks."

"It's not like I eat all those meals in one day, Sherlock, and you forgot second breakfast and elevenses, if you're going to be that way. Git."

"You even exhibit vestigial hairs on the tops of your feet and on your toes."

"Everyone has those, Sherlock!"

"Hobbit John."

"A Hobbit would never have joined the army, Sherlock, and one certainly would not be running around after you having adventures."

"Bilbo went off to battle a dragon. Frodo and Samwise may have been more reluctant in their duties, but Merry and Pippin certainly seemed to be looking for adventure. You are very special, my Hobbit John. You like to complain but you would not be left behind. And you like your tea."

"What are you, then? An elf or a wizard? God, probably an elf, all lanky and gorgeous and mysterious. Or a wizard?"

Sherlock's lips turned up into the smuggest smile in his arsenal.  "Full of magic tricks and hidden agendas, me?"


	8. Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little dippy something to prove I'm still alive :)

Sherlock got frustratingly cryptic when he got ill. It was a symptom of his petulance and his need to spread his misery.

For instance, once when Sherlock was too weak from the flu to make it off the sofa, John massaged his feet and subjected him to a Harry Potter marathon. When John went to the kitchen to make him toast for lunch, Sherlock didn't waste time arguing about eating, but instead insisted it must be cut like Floo powder or he would not touch it.

John set the bread aside immediately and moved into the sitting room.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John put his head on Sherlock's forehead. The man was still feverish, but he didn't feel like he was burning up enough to be delirious. Sherlock tossed his head to dislodge John's hand. The doctor resolved to assault Sherlock with a thermometer.

"Floo powder, John. Toast."

"I don't know what that means, love."

"And tea." Sherlock made a sort of hmphing motion as if that were the end of the conversation.

"Floo powder. Dusted with sugar?" John guessed.

"No, John. Harry Potter. You love those movies. They go about in chimneys with Floo powder."

"Yes, I know, but what on earth does that have to do with toast? You're just being difficult."

"Floo powder!" Sherlock hollered, ineffectually trying to bombard John with used tissues. Thankfully, they didn't fly very far.

John began to grumble but headed back to the kitchen. He stared at the buttered toast. Floo powder. What the hell could that mean?

When the answer came to him, he laughed. They took the powder to Diagon Alley, but Harry had said 'diagonally,' hadn't he?

John delivered the properly cut toast to Sherlock's blanket mountain on the sofa.

"Please try to eat, Sherlock."

"Not moving."

"I'll feed you then, shall I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Wales."

"Oh, just eat your damn toast." John picked a triangle up at random and shoved it past Sherlock's lips. Sherlock peered at the other three triangles on the plate and saw that John had grabbed the correct quarter, though mainly due to his being left-handed. He chewed obediently.


End file.
